


Aid and a Bet

by AZGirl



Series: Musketeers - Season 2 [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e09 The Accused, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They needed to come up with a plan to save Constance as well as Aramis, but they were fast running out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aid and a Bet

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up directly after the last scene in the episode.

**ooooooo**

_“What’s done is done.” – Athos, 2.09 The Accused_. 

ooooooo 

Outside the prison’s gates, d’Artagnan tried to get his breathing under control as he lay where the Red Guards had dumped him. 

Darkness hovered around the edges of his vision and he found it difficult to put the pain from the Guards’ hits to his torso and head to the back of his mind. He was hurting, but he truly believed that the bruises he’d gained had been more than worth the price for the few moments that he’d managed to steal with Constance. 

When he’d been dropped to the ground onto his left side, the crossguard of his sword had dug painfully into his torso, likely bruising his ribs and reminding him of the first time he’d met Constance. The pain in his head was trying to drag him back under, but he fought to remain conscious as he listened to his beloved’s voice calling out his name. He refused to believe it would be the last time he will ever hear her voice. 

He was still on the ground when her cries for him finally died down. D’Artagnan was just about to attempt to regain his feet when his legs were viciously kicked, pain erupting in his lower limbs. The Red Guard who had delivered the blow said something about Musketeer scum not being allowed to loiter in front of the prison if they didn’t want to see the inside of a cell as a prisoner. 

Either Athos, Tréville, or both would probably kill him if he ended up a prisoner at this critical stage of the game. Things were dire enough as it was, they didn’t need to be down another man, and Constance would definitely not thank him either. 

After another hard kick by the Guard, this time to his booted feet, d’Artagnan began to slowly roll over onto his right side reawakening every emerging bruise. Lifting his head from the ground, the world tilted alarmingly for a moment before righting itself. 

His movements were methodical and precise, which aided d’Artagnan in his efforts to slowly, carefully, get to his feet. Once there, it took him a moment to truly regain a sense of equilibrium before he felt confident enough that he could walk back towards the Musketeer garrison. 

Taking his first steps, he heard the Red Guards behind him laughing at the way he was walking, comparing him to a drunkard or a cripple. The pain in his head as well as the way the world would spin occasionally certainly seemed to help bolster their jibes. His ribs on his left side were painful, causing him to tuck his arm into his side. He was pretty sure they were only severely bruised and not cracked or broken, but without Aramis…

Aramis. 

A flash of guilt briefly stops him in his tracks. So concerned with Constance, he’d hardly given any thought to his friend who was most likely being held in the same prison. Constance’s situation may be more immediate, but who knows what new lows Rochefort might stoop to with a Musketeer as his prisoner. He shudders at the thought of Aramis possibly being tortured by that maniac. 

They needed to come up with a plan to save Constance as well as Aramis, but they were fast running out of time. Constance was sentenced to be executed at sunrise. They had so few hours left to come up with a plan that would free his beloved let alone his friend. 

Regardless, d’Artagnan knew that if his ribs were cracked or broken that either Tréville or Athos, not willing to risk a wrong move causing his bones to be driven into his lungs, would sideline him and force him into the smallest, least dangerous of roles. He thought that Athos might still try to sideline him even if his ribs were only bruised. However, he didn’t really care what the others said; there was no way in hell he would not be part of the plan to save his Constance. 

As he walked, sometimes stumbling on nothing, he could see the disdain on several shopkeepers’ faces. They must all think he had been drinking to excess while on duty, something he had never once done. He had been hungover a few times but never drunk. 

D’Artagnan was finding it difficult to concentrate on the route he was taking back to the garrison. His mind kept going from one extreme to the other, and his thoughts were all over the place. 

One moment he was feeling guilty for not arguing more strongly against Constance remaining at the Palace with the Queen. With Rochefort in control, that place was more dangerous than a pit of vipers. He admired Constance’s sense of loyalty to the Queen, but her link to the Musketeers had put her at even greater risk and now she was hours away from being executed for treason against the Crown. 

In the next moment, he remembers how elated he had been back at the prison to hear how much Constance loves him. Bonacieux’ last words come to him once again, reminding him that he and Constance were cursed to never be happy. There was a very real possibility of that curse coming to fruition in the coming day. If he cannot save her, Constance will be executed and his heart ripped out of his chest where it would quickly turn to dust. Without her in his life, he wasn’t sure his heart would ever again be capable of love. 

D’Artagnan stumbled and almost went down to his knees, but he managed to catch himself by reflexively thrusting out a hand towards the wall of a nearby building. 

Lifting his head to take stock of his surroundings, d’Artagnan saw that his feet had unconsciously kept him on the right path towards home, or more accurately, towards where his body considered home. In his heart, home was wherever Constance or his brothers are. 

Home was now on the knife’s edge of being destroyed. Should Aramis be executed, he felt his other two brothers would become mere shadows of their former selves. He loved his brothers, but they had been the Inseparables long before he had come along, and though he had been accepted by them, he still felt on the outside at times. D’Artagnan had always been of the opinion that should he perish, the three of them could easily go on without him, but if one of the original trio of friends should die, it would be disastrous to the group as a whole. He didn’t begrudge the closeness his friends shared, but sometimes he wished that he could experience it in full though, unless he could go back in time and be there when his friends had first met, that would be impossible. 

Realizing that he wasn’t too far from the garrison’s gates, he let out a small sigh relief. The grey at the edges of his vision since he’d left the prison was now spreading like tendrils of a vine across his eyes, making it more and more difficult to see. He wanted to stop, wanted to rest, but knew if he did then he would not be getting back up again without help. 

D’Artagnan stumbled once again, the greyness of his surroundings now almost entirely black, but he refused to allow himself to give in. 

The garrison was so close now; he could see it in the distance. He had to get there, had to get back to his friends. Despair made his aches and pains briefly flare up as he was reminded that his closest friends were scattered and out of reach – all but Athos. 

His best friend was at the garrison and soon they would be reunited. Soon they would be able to come up with a plan to rescue Constance from the executioner’s blade. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could find a way to release Aramis as well. Afterwards, they would then rendezvous with Porthos and take down Rochefort with Vargas’s help. The King would finally have the scales lifted from his eyes, and he would see Rochefort for the snake he was. Once Rochefort was executed, the Queen as well as the Musketeers would hopefully regain the King’s favor. 

More importantly, the people he loved most in the world would be together again. Perhaps he could even start a new chapter of his life. Would Constance want to marry a soldier, knowing full well that their long term happiness could not be guaranteed? That a soldier’s life was often a short life? Some time ago, Constance had rightly reminded him of her precarious situation in life because she is a woman. There were very few ways for a woman to make a respectable living in this day and age and fewer still if they were to be blessed with children. Could she deal with the possibility of raising their children alone? 

Despite everything that could go wrong, he loved Constance too much to give her up to what-ifs. If they survived the next few days, then he was going to ask Constance to marry him. 

He was snapped out of his thoughts about weddings and wedding nights by someone calling his name. D’Artagnan looked up to see that a Musketeer, whose name he could not remember, was at the garrison’s main gate, looking torn between going to him and staying at his guard post. D’Artagnan solved the man’s dilemma by waving him off before continuing towards the gates. He thought he saw another look of indecision cross the man’s face seconds before the soldier turned towards the courtyard and yell Athos’ name loudly. 

Barely had he stepped a foot past the entrance when he stumbled and went down to his hands and knees. He managed to push himself partially upright so that he was sitting fully on his knees, his upper body swaying like a tree in a strong wind. 

Suddenly, there were other…people clustered around him putting their hands on him, but he flinched away from their grasping hands, not trusting in strangers his foggy brain could not recognize at the moment. His bruises were throbbing in concert with his head, creating a symphony of pain and making it difficult to think about much beyond it. The people around him were trying to get his attention, but he could barely see through the encroaching blackness. 

Two hands came into his line of sight and reached for his shoulders, but for some reason he both allowed and welcomed this person’s touch. A voice said his name; he knew that voice.  

Athos.

Athos sounded somewhat panicked, making d’Artagnan wonder what had happened to make his friend sound like that. He looked up when the older man said his name again, but his vision immediately began to slide to the right as the blackness rushed in. 

ooooooo 

As he ever so slowly rose up out of the darkness he found himself in, d’Artagnan thought he could hear a voice. The higher he rose, the clearer it became. 

Athos. The voice belonged to Athos, and he let himself bask in the comforting tones of the man’s voice. 

With time – how much time was impossible to know – he realized that Athos was talking about Milady. D’Artagnan tried to pay attention to the words and was eventually rewarded for his efforts. 

“…so in the heat of the moment, I kissed her.” 

_Kissed Milady? What—?_

Despite Athos’s shocking revelation, d’Artagnan found that he was incapable of giving voice to his thoughts just yet. 

“God help me, but I kissed her. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps Catherine was right.” 

_Catherine? From Pinon? When—?_

“Perhaps I _am_ still in love with her. Anne insists over and over again that Thomas tried to rape her. The story never changes in its details.” 

_Don’t let her get to you, Athos. She can’t be trusted._

“I am caught up in her again, my friend, and I don’t know what I can do to escape – if it’s even possible anymore. She claims to have lied about her past because she loved me.” 

_Or so she says._

“Or so she says. I can’t forgive what she’s done, but I also can’t seem to stop… feeling… _something_ towards her. The King may have pardoned her, but that does not negate the choices she’s made the past six years.” 

_Exactly. Her choices. Not your fault._

“I once thought that it was my fault for what she became, but perhaps…it wasn’t.” 

_No, it wasn’t, brother._

“She could’ve chosen several other paths and yet she allowed herself to become a person I hardly recognize anymore.” 

_Let her go, Athos. If you were to reconcile, you would eventually destroy each other._

“I’m not sure I have the strength to let her go again.” 

_You do. You do have the strength, Athos. Believe in yourself as I believe in you. As Porthos and Aramis believe in you._

“I am at the crossroads again and I have no idea which path to take.” 

_Fear not, Athos. Your friends will help you, if you let us._

“D’Artagnan, you must wake up now. You’ve been asleep for far too long.” 

D’Artagnan heard water dripping for a few seconds just before something cool and wet was laid on his forehead, causing him to flinch and groan in pleasure. 

“D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan, can you hear me?” 

_Of course I can hear you_ , he wanted to say, but he was pretty sure his words came out somewhat garbled, if they even came out at all. 

“Open your eyes,” Athos commanded. “I am sorry for sending you to the prison.” 

_I’m not_. 

“I did not mean for you to get hurt. I only wanted you to have some time with Constance, knowing Rochefort would not allow it any other way.” 

The cool cloth was lifted from his forehead and he mumbled his displeasure at its disappearance. 

“Open. Your. Eyes,” Athos said. 

The tone of voice was unmistakable; he was being ordered to open his eyes and couldn’t help but obey. 

D’Artagnan opened his eyes but immediately closed them again when the bright light of his surroundings stabbed at his eyeballs, making his head ache. 

“My apologies, d’Artagnan, I did not…” 

D’Artagnan heard some noises his still muddled mind couldn’t quite identify before Athos told him to try opening his eyes again. 

This time, when he opened them, the room was dimly lit, as if there was only a single candle alight. Neither his eyes nor his head hurt as much as before. He blinked a few times, which allowed Athos and the room – _his_ room – to come into focus. 

“How did I get here?” d’Artagnan asked and cleared his throat. 

Athos leaned forward from the chair he was sitting on and helped raise d’Artagnan’s heavy head so that he could drink some water. 

“Here as in…?” 

“My room.” 

“Several of us carried you in here, of course.”—Athos leaned back in his chair—“My name is shouted, and I come running into the courtyard to see you on your knees flinching away from and fighting the Musketeers who were trying to help you. I knelt down in front of you, trying to get your attention. You seemed to recognize me, but when I put my hands on your shoulders to try and steady you”—the older man leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and rubbing a hand over tired eyes—“you toppled over into my arms, scaring the life out of me. With Porthos away…and Aramis… I don’t think I could take…” 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan said, reaching out a hand towards Athos, who grabbed it and squeezed briefly before letting go. 

“I told Constance to never give up hope and you must not either. We will defeat Rochefort and we _will_ be together again.” 

Athos stared at him for a moment before briefly closing his eyes and nodding. 

“Good,” d’Artagnan said, shifting his body to get more comfortable in his bed. “Now how are we going to save our friends?” 

D’Artagnan and Athos flung ideas back and forth, but none of the ideas would work with only two people to implement them. 

After a while, Athos wanted to take a break from their planning to allow him some sleep, but he refused knowing that there were so few hours left before Constance was to be executed. They compromised on d’Artagnan promising to not get out of bed unless it was to use the chamber pot, while Athos promised to attempt to relax for a time. They both agreed to attempt to eat a decent meal. 

A short time later, Tréville joined them while they were arguing – quietly, in deference to d’Artagnan’s aching head – about whether or not they could endanger any more Musketeer lives by asking them to help break Constance out of the prison. Athos stood and offered the chair to Tréville, who sat heavily down upon it, rubbing a hand through his hair in an obvious sign of frustration. 

“I have been summoned to the prison tomorrow morning to bear witness to the execution,” Tréville said. 

He and Athos shared a look, causing d’Artagnan to smile slightly. With the presence of another friendly face at the prison, things might just work out after all. 

ooooooo 

“Now that we’ve got a plan well in hand”—Tréville turned to look at d’Artagnan—“I wanted to ask how you are doing. If you think you’ll be well enough by morning?” 

D’Artagnan glanced briefly at Athos before replying, “Battered but just about serviceable.” 

Athos smiled and briefly chuckled, d’Artagnan noticing Tréville’s eyes open wide in surprise at the sound. The expression on their captain’s face making it seem as if the man had never before heard Athos laugh. The thought was absurd; of course Athos laughed. He’d seen his friend chuckle once before back when they were at Pinon. 

Tréville recovered quickly, his face resuming the neutral expression the man generally wore. 

The older man moved to clap him on the shoulder as he said, “It seems I owe you 25 livres.” 

“You do?” he asked, confused by the non sequitur. 

The Captain’s eyes slid over towards Athos, before he rose from the chair without answering d’Artagnan’s question. 

At the door, Tréville addressed Athos. “I’m guessing that you’re staying here tonight.” 

Athos nodded once before the Captain added, “Good. Then I will see you in the morning. Make sure you both get some sleep.” 

“Yes, Captain,” the two younger men said in concert with each other. 

Tréville rolled his eyes as he shut the door. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help the big smile that erupted on his face. “He forgets sometimes, doesn’t he?” 

“Indeed,” Athos replied. The older man studied d’Artagnan’s face for a moment before raising an eyebrow and stating, “You really don’t know, do you?” 

“Know what?” d’Artagnan asked, beginning to feel frustrated over his inability to understand what seemed to be random, nonsensical comments. 

Athos smiled and raised a hand to rub at his beard, which took away the smile. 

“They all think I am unaware of their ridiculous bet to be the first one to get me to laugh”—Athos sat back down in the chair with a huff—“but they weren’t exactly subtle about it in the beginning.” 

“Bet? Laugh? I-I don’t understand.” 

“How many times have you seen me laugh since you met me?” Athos asked. 

D’Artagnan thought back and found the number to be much lower than he thought it would be. 

“Twice,” he replied. 

“Care to guess how many times I’ve laughed out loud in the past six years?” 

His eyes widened as realization dawned, causing d’Artagnan to smile. “Really?” 

Athos nodded once, which oddly made him feel as if he’d accomplished something great: He’d made his best friend laugh when no one else could. 

“Back at…”—Athos trailed off then shook his head as if he were ridding himself of bad memories—“The first time… I thought I would be teased mercilessly and plagued with inane comments from our two friends, but when none came, I surmised that a witness was required to win the bet.” 

“Tréville,” d’Artagnan said. Athos quirked a brief smile. 

“But-but how can I win when I didn’t even know about the bet?” 

Athos shrugged. “Maybe they assume that they told you?” 

D’Artagnan coughed and Athos handed him a cup of water. 

“If you knew about the bet, then why—?” 

“You are planning to ask Constance to marry you when this is all over, are you not?” 

Sometimes he forgets how well Athos knows him. D’Artagnan nodded an enthusiastic affirmative, smiling as he did so. 

“Well then, how else are you to pay for the wedding and the honeymoon?” 

D’Artagnan laughed harder and longer than was wise, given the various twinges of pain in his body. As he forced himself to breathe through the pain, he realized something: 

He’d now seen Athos laugh _three_ times since they’d met. 

“Thank you, Athos. I—” 

His friend held up a hand, interrupting him. “Don’t. They all deserve to lose that idiotic bet. Too many times they were so obnoxious about it, whereas you never tried to force it. You were just…you, and for that I am grateful.” 

“But I didn’t know,” d’Artagnan argued, though he was thinking about what the future might soon hold for him. 

With a grin on his face, Athos replied, “All the better.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
